


As Weeds Fall in the Weeping Brook

by hlae



Category: The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlae/pseuds/hlae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no rest for the wicked. Not even in dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Weeds Fall in the Weeping Brook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



> Dear SegaBarrett--This may not have been what you expected, but I hope you like it nonetheless.

This is how it doesn’t happen:

You don’t hesitate, huddled behind that mud wall in that empty bazaar, footsteps silent in the dirty slush, trembling like a snowflake in the wind. You scream wildly, and you charge into that alleyway, leaping onto Assef’s back, your desperate fists pummeling his back. For a moment, you feel alive; then rough hands grab you, throw you to the ground. You hit the narrow walls of the alley as you go down, brick scraping against your clumsy fingers as you scramble for a handhold. The snow feels cold against your bare neck. You’re breathing fast, and then you look up; Assef, eyes narrowed, grins toothily at you and reaches into his jacket–

Or perhaps you grab a rock, too, and you run in and you hurl it at Assef’s head with a shout. It hits him, surprisingly, though your aim was never very good the few times Baba was in a good enough mood to play baseball with you; he cries out and spins around. You’ve lost momentum, and you stumble to the ground, but it doesn’t matter anyway, since Assef already has one hand fisted in your coat and another cocked back–

Or perhaps you just jump in front of him and let him beat you; the same punishment, but suffered many years earlier, perhaps harder to bear on your slighter frame, not knowing which you do now. Perhaps easier–a momentary agony for a lifetime of peace.

In these fantasies, you never see Hassan’s face.

\--

Sometimes, you sleep.

“What’s the matter?” Soraya asks, rubbing her eyes. You are usually good at this, at not waking her up when you have one of your fits. It must have been bad.

 “I don’t remember,” you say. The crickets chirp softly, matching the beat of your thudding heart. You don’t know if you’re telling the truth. You don’t want to remember.

When she only looks at you, patient and loving, you finally say “I’m trying to write the next chapter, but it’s not going very well. I can’t make it past this one scene.”

She yawns, blinks her dark eyes at you. The moonlight, seeping through the fluttering curtains, highlights the gentle curve of her cheek. For a moment, you want to tell her everything. Then she turns and the light spills across the bed sheets, leaving a puddle of darkness on your lap, and you press your lips together.

“Skip ahead then,” she says, already half-asleep. She’s often been tired recently, getting up in the middle of the night, peeking into Sohrab’s room. Ensuring that he’s okay, after what happened.

You want to tell her, _life doesn’t work like that_ but instead you say, “That’s clever of you,” and kiss her forehead. She breathes in response.

You stare at your ceiling until morning comes.

\---

You don’t remember how long it’s been now since you arrived in America with Sohrab. He moves like a ghost, softly, invisibly, through doorways and across the floor. Every so often, when the nights are cloudy and the light illuminating your bedroom is nothing but a faint hue, you wonder if he is.

Maybe it’s something to do with you, not him. You don’t realize that he’s sitting at your table until halfway through your morning meal. He’s quietly tearing off pieces of naan, spread with cherry marmalade. Soraya must have given it to him. Soraya must have noticed him. “ _This was my favourite breakfast,”_ you told him once, in the beginning. He didn’t respond, and you hesitated, because you didn’t know what Hassan’s favourite breakfast was. By now, you’ve forgotten what it sounds like when Sohrab speaks. He rarely even looks at you, eyes glancing at your face when you speak and then sliding off to the wall behind you, as if he’s looking for something no one else can see. 

You wish desperately that you could see it too.

\---

“Go on,” says Hassan. It’s not the Hassan of the Polaroid photo, tall and at ease, but the Hassan of your childhood; rounded face, delicate ears and green eyes. The only way you knew it was him, and not Sohrab, was through his smile. You’ve seen it a million times, but not like this, and you unconsciously began to smile as well; lips stretched wide, in his happiest of grins, Hassan hands you a knife.

“Go on,” he says again. You are in what you think is a cabin, but there is no furniture and no windows, just wooden walls.

You look at him, confused. “Go where?”

He points behind you; you see a lamb strapped to the ground, one yellow eye swiveled to look right at you. You look at the lamb, then at the knife in your hand, then back at the lamb. It doesn’t move, merely waits; unnatural, for a beast.

You turn backwards to protest, but Hassan is gone. When you twist around once more, the lamb is gone, and it is only Hassan on the floor, looking at you, still smiling gently, and waiting.

You try to drop the knife, but you’re not holding it anymore. Instead, you are cupping hundreds of pomegranate seeds, and when you open your hands, they rain down, dying Hassan like a river of blood.

You can’t stop screaming.

\---

“Maybe we should get some help,” says Soraya carefully, over dinner one night.

At first, you are confused. You think back to the past week; nothing particularly eventful had happened between you two.

“Are you unhappy?” you ask. You put down your fork.

Soraya makes a sound like she wants to laugh, but it turns halfway into a quiet sob. “I’m happy,” she says, “but I’m worried about you. I’ve been having to shake you awake at night for weeks. You always simply fall asleep again, but in the morning, when I ask you what’s wrong, you brush it off.” Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, cheeks flushed; she’s as beautiful and luminous as ever, but instead of a feeling of love you feel a sudden burst of irritation.

“I’m okay,” you say. You don’t feel very hungry anymore. The chair where Sohrab sits is empty. He had finished and left without a sound–or maybe he was never there in the first place.

Soraya makes a noise of frustration. “It’ll pass,” you try again, “I just need more time. I’ve been having trouble with the novel, and with Sohrab–”

You cut yourself off, but Soraya should understand. What would you say, anyway? With Sohrab, here, quiet as a graveyard. With Sohrab, here, like a void of silence, sucking in what little happiness you two had. With Sohrab, here, and no one to stand beside him and teach him how to be a boy.

It is only later, lying in bed, that you realize that when Soraya had made kofta, shorwa, and white ferni–rice and meatballs with soup; three dishes for two people. Or three, you correct yourself. Unusual, nonetheless, for a simple meal, when sabzi challow is what the two of you usually have.

You try to remember if it’s a special occasion, but when you close your eyes you can only remember that she had said _we_ when she meant _you_.

\---

In your dreams, you are not a liar, and Hassan and Ali never leave. In your dreams, you are not a coward, and you always stand up for yourself. In your dreams, Baba is proud of you–

You wake up, cheeks wet for an unknown reason.

\---

You can’t do this. The floor beside you is littered with crumpled pages, and the one you are working on now has ripped clean through with the force of your rubbing. You throw the eraser and the pencil aside and put your face in your hands.

“It’s just writer’s block,” Soraya had said, with a fond exasperation. She’s been exasperated with a lot, recently, you’ve noticed. The bags under her eyes are deep and you feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe you do need help. You had nodded thanks, distracted, at the food she put in front of you; the deadline’s coming up soon and you have no time even for dinner. By the time you turned back to your work you had forgotten what you were worrying about.

It’s not just writer’s block, you want to tell her now. It’s everything. “ _I am so khasta_ ,” Sohrab had said. You are so tired, too. Sometimes you wish that Rahim Khan never called you back, that you didn’t return to Afghanistan. Sometimes you wish you had never left. No, beyond that, you wish you hadn’t been born who you are; that in another life, you wouldn’t have spent half your life in ignorance and the other in shame.

Perhaps, better to have never been born at all.

\---

“Go on,” Hassan says again, but it’s different, it’s wrong, because he’s not smiling. He turns into Sohrab, then, still speaking with Hassan’s voice. You look down at your hand, but there is no knife this time. He reaches for your hand with his small, delicate fingers; uncurls your fist to drop something inside. You open your palms to look: it’s a single brass ball. When you turn around, there is merely a door.

You reach for it, walk outside slowly. The light is blinding; it hurts your eyes. You step forward, one foot feeling its way after the other; you don’t realize that you’re wading in water until you’re chest deep. It’s dyed a bright red colour, impossible except in dreams. You feel light, buoyant, almost, as the water rises to your shoulders, the unnaturally soft bottom of the lake padding your steps.

You stop and turn around. On the land, Hassan/Sohrab watches. _Inshallah,_ he says; you shouldn’t hear him, but you do.

_Forgive me,_ you want to say, but you don’t. The tears slide down your cheeks, warm as the water around you. _There is a way to be good again,_ Rahim Khan had said.

_Inshallah_ , you think; your eyes close as the water swallows you in. Underneath the surface, you smile.


End file.
